


Breaking Place

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF Stiles, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Character Study, Consensual Somnophilia, Falling In Love, Healing, M/M, Monster of the Week, POV Second Person, Past Derek Hale/Paige, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Stilinski Family Feels, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 17:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12537572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: You look at him and Stiles is watching you, curious and smiling and you say, “It would be worth it. If he breaks me, it will be worth it.”





	Breaking Place

Your sister told you that you break everything you loved, one night, drunk on Moonshine. 

You believed her. 

*

 

The first time you kiss him, he’s shouting at you, and it makes his flailing and anger still. You don’t know who is shocked more, you or him, but he catches on quicker than you do, opens on a groan as his hands sink into your hair and you jerk away, wiping at your mouth as he pants and stares at you with wide, wide eyes. 

You run. Because he terrifies you. Because you can taste him, and your fingers itch to reach for him. Because his heartbeat sounds too loud in your ears, but not loud enough to drown out the whining noise he makes as you step away from him. 

You run. 

*

 

You don’t get to keep nice things. 

You used to try. After Paige, even after Kate fucked you and left you bleeding out, all hurt and fury that made you lash out at your family. You  _ tried. _

Then Kate came back, and the fire happened and you spent so long running you forgot to try and the girls you fucked on full moon nights were all pretty things you cut up with your sharp edges until you realized that’s all you did. 

You stop trying after that, and when you need to spend your restless energy, you fuck twinks in bathrooms and human girls with a little less shine than you like, but when they break, you don’t mind as much. 

Humans break. That’s what they do. 

You leave a trail of broken hearts and sometimes you see Laura watching you and you wonder what she thinks of you now, what your mother would think. 

Then you remind yourself you don’t care. 

*

 

You spend a week avoiding him. 

You’d spend longer than that, but this is Beacon Hills, and you can justify much, but avoiding an awkward encounter and getting someone killed because of it isn’t one of those things. 

You slip into his bedroom window and he doesn’t even blink at you. “Scott talked to Deaton and he thinks it’s a thunderbird.” 

You shift awkwardly, and he passes a pile of research to you, because he’s the one who does the research but he knows you like to look at it. You nod your thanks and quirk an eyebrow. “What do we do?” 

“Thunderbirds mate for life, and they build on the eyre. So our best bet is move the nest to a new eyre, outside our territory. It’s that or kill them, and the chances of taking them both out at the same time is…” he shakes his head, “Not good, dude.” 

“They’re not gonna be pleased if we attack their eyre,” you point out and he nods. 

He looks a little sick, green around the gills and you take a step closer to him, without actually meaning to. 

“What?” 

“We take the eggs,” he says, and your stomach turns. “We take their eggs and we move the eyre. As long as we’ve got the clutch, the birds won’t move against us.” 

It’s smart. Ruthless. It’s the best plan to keep everyone from getting hurt. 

“Scott will hate it,” you say and Stiles nods, miserably. 

You shove the research in your pocket and nod, turning to the window. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Stiles asks, and you glance back at him. 

“Do we have to?” 

He shakes his head, and there isn’t even sadness in his eyes. Just amused acceptance. “Nah, dude. We don’t.” 

You nod and slip out of the window. 

*

 

You used to believe in things like mates and love at first sight.

You saw Paige, in the hallway, furious and gorgeous, smelling like rosin and oak and you fell so hard and so fast that it had to be fate. 

She wasn’t, and she died in your arms, at your hands and for a long time you thought you’d never love again. 

Kate confirmed that. 

By the time that was over, you didn’t want to love again. 

*

 

Stiles cradles the eggs in his lap and you watch him from the corner of your eye as Peter and Isaac rebuild the nest. You can hear thunder in the distant and screaming, raw fury and grief. 

Stiles looks sick to his stomach but resolute, and you’re glad he suggested doing this when Scott was busy. 

The eggs are massive and fragile, paper thin things that would shatter with one strong wind, you think, and you won’t go near them because you break things, you break every fucking thing you touch. 

But Stiles. 

Stiles with his long fingers and loose smile, with his fierce fragility and sharp tongue. 

He holds them safe and steady and as the thunder echoes overhead, he never flinches. 

*

 

The problem isn’t Stiles, even though he thinks it is, and keeps avoiding your eyes with something sad in his scent. 

The problem is you. 

The problem has always been you.

*

 

He’s drunk the first time he goes down on you, and you hate yourself for that even as he pushes you against the wall and strokes your cock and giggles when he finds you hard. 

You’re always hard when he’s around, something that perplexes you as much as it drives you fucking  _ crazy _ and his fingers twist, this dirty upstroke that makes you want to howl. 

You do moan and Stiles yanks you down, panting against your lips as he kisses you, wet and dirty and sloppy. 

It’s not a good kiss, but you don’t give a fuck because it’s  _ Stiles _ . 

When he breaks away you whine in your throat and he rewards you with a laugh as he drops to his knees, hands thick fingered and fumbling as he frees your dick and you dig your claws into the brick wall as he swallows you down. 

It doesn’t take long and you might be embarrassed by that, by coming down his throat thirty seconds into a messy blow job if he didn’t moan around you and twitch on his knees and come in his pants when you yank on his hair. 

He comes back to you smelling like come and Moonshine and grinning so wide it hurts something in your chest, but when he kisses you, it’s gentle, like you’re precious and a sharp edge around your heart smoothes out. 

*

 

Scott is pissed. He gives Stiles the disappointed stare you know he hates, shoves you around some, flashes his eyes. All the alpha posturing you expect from him. It’s exhausting and you tune it out even as it’s happen, narrow all your attention on Stiles because he’s got that look on his face that you can’t stand, the pinched guilty look you saw so often after the nogitsune, and he doesn’t have to feel guilty, not about this, it wasn’t his  _ fault. _

He looks shattered, and when Scott storms out, he moves slow, careful, and for a moment, you think of the eggs he cradled, the paper thin shell that protected them and you think he will shatter just as easily. 

*

 

You grew up with a strong Alpha and sisters who still leave a lingering pulse of terror in your gut, and you think that’s what drew you to Paige. 

She was soft smiles and sweetness, a silky veneer over spun steel and she didn’t shatter when you touched her, when you pressed her into the beams of the distillery and sucked bruises into her skin, but she  _ bent _ . 

She gave, just enough, and it was intoxicating. 

She was soft and breakable and you never thought, not once, that you would be the one to break her. 

*

 

He doesn’t bring it up. 

It perplexes you, because Stiles talks about  _ everything _ from the classes he’s taking to the movie he watched last night to his latest campaign on D&D and what it means that his toe has turned a frankly disgusting shade of purple. 

You’ve heard more about the man’s bodily functions than you ever care to and he had your dick in his mouth and hasn’t mentioned it. 

You wait, and wait and wait, and he doesn’t, sits through pack meetings and shows up to cook a week’s worth of meals for the betas in your oversized kitchen, and passes out on your couch reading your copy of Canterbury Tales and he never mentions it and nothing changes, and you don’t know what that means. 

You want to run, want to hide, but you think he’d chase you if you did, so you stay and you wonder. 

And a part of you wants  _ more. _

*

 

“So we have a problem,” Stiles says and you look up as thunder shakes through the sky, so loud it makes you clap your hands over your ears, and Stiles lunges forward. You press into him as he holds you close, until the sound of his heartbeat drowns out the thunder and the rain and he mutters. 

“We, uh. We missed an egg.” 

*

 

What you hate most about Kate--aside from the way she left your life literally in ashes--was that you never actually  _ liked _ Kate. 

You wanted to. 

You told yourself you did. 

She was wild and bright and  _ strong, _ the kind of steel that you understood. She didn’t have claws or fangs, but sometimes, when she talked, you thought she did, and it settled something in you that felt shattered after Paige, because you couldn’t be trusted with something fragile and easily broken and if Kate sometimes left you feeling raw and bleeding, it was better than leaving someone else broken. 

And then she did break you. She broke everything. She destroyed your life and killed your family and you wished that she had torn you apart with claws and fangs because that would have been better than this, than the sharp ripping pain that lived in your gut, every day. 

*

 

You keep going back. You don’t plan to, tell yourself you won’t, but it happens, after fights and pack meetings and when you stumble into his room, so fucking tired you want to cry, and he pushes you down with a kiss so soft you actually feel tears in your eyes and he keeps kissing you, until you're sinking boneless into his bed, too tired to even thrust into the hot mouth on your cock, and you know you come but you pass out before you really realize it. 

It happens when he’s pissed at you, shoving into your space and fucking into your fist as he bites curses into your skin. 

It happens when you find him asleep on your bed and you mouth at his neck and slide his pants down to nip at the full curve of his ass, press your hard cock between his thighs as he hardens and you wake him like that, fucking into that tight warm space, and he spills as he calls your name and your come runs down his cock and balls as you drop heavy on the bed next to him. 

You keep going back and you can’t fucking stop. 

But you don’t fuck him. 

You tell yourself if you don’t do that, this--whatever the fuck this is--is ok. Because Stiles chose this and he’s breakable, he’s so fucking fragile it makes you shake, sometimes, gives you nightmares that only ease when you’re sitting on his roof, listening to the steady beat of his heart and the slow shush of his breath. 

But you won’t fuck him and if he is  _ choosing  _ the rest, well, he’s human and it’s his choice, even if you think it’s idiotic, flirting with danger. 

He runs with  _ wolves _ , you sure as hell aren’t going to be able to convince him that fucking you is dangerous. 

You worry about his self-preservation skills, honestly. 

You don’t fuck him because you remember what you’re sister said, that night, drunk on Moonshine and bitter with loss and you know it’s true. 

And you would rather die than break Stiles. 

*

 

You don’t fuck him, but you never do properly plan for Stiles, which is how you find yourself fucked open on his fingers in a mess of sheets that smell like you and him and when did that  _ happen? _

His fingers are gentle as they spread you and your bite your fist to keep from begging, and let him take what he wants, everything he wants, because you would give him everything you have. 

It’s never what you expect with him. He’s gentle as he fingers you open, and quiet which is almost disconcerting, except that his lips are moving against your thigh, silent praise pressed there as he slides a third finger in and you writhe on them, and pant and choke off the  _ please, fuck, please Stiles, fuck me.  _

You’re silent, you are both so quiet it feels almost like a dream as he slides into you. 

It's a dream you’ve had often enough, it wouldn’t even surprise you. 

He moves slow and sure, steady and grounding, and his fingers lace with yours, his free stripping your cock as he thrusts into you, as you shake apart and come over his hand, across your belly. 

He makes a noise when he comes, this noise that makes your shudder and your cock twitch and you squeeze your eyes closed as he kisses you because that noise, that fucking  _ noise _ . 

He sounded happy, content, like  _ this _ was coming home. 

Like  _ you _ were home. 

*

 

He’s human and fragile and breakable. 

So why is he breaking you apart and why is he holding you together? 

*

 

Stiles has always been an enigma and you keep thinking you’ll figure him out, but it never does happen. 

He always manages to surprise you. 

He smiles, soft and sweet at you and you can smell him on you,  _ in _ you, and it should terrify you, but it feels almost,  _ almost _ like something you could keep. 

He could be strong enough for you to keep. 

*

 

She was your sister and your Alpha, and your best friend and the one you hated. 

She was everything you never bothered to name, and then she was just  _ everything _ and you could love her and need her because if there was anything you knew about Laura, it was that she was the strongest person you knew. 

Laura couldn’t break. 

It was a fact so ingrained in your psyche, it was like saying the sky was blue and the full moon called to you. 

She looked at you sometimes, and you could feel the revulsion in her eyes, could feel the suspicions she never voiced and you know that she deserves better than you, but she doesn’t send you away and you won’t leave her. 

When she leaves you in New York, she kisses your cheek and tells you to be good, that she’ll be home in a week and you give her a smile that is starting to feel real. 

Laura was unbreakable, the solid rock that you rebuilt your life on, after the fire. She was fierce and beautiful and  _ strong _ and laughter and deep knowing stares. 

When she dies, you feel it, jogging through Central Park and it drives you to your knees with the bone rattling strength of an earthquake and cracks your world in two. 

*

 

“You said two,” you repeat. It’s the third time you’ve said it and Stiles doesn’t look any more impressed than he had been the first time. 

“Maybe they're fucking polyamorous thunderbirds,” he snipes and you give him a  _ what the fuck, Stiles _ stare that he shrugs off and says, “Isaac is a poly werewolf.” 

You snap your teeth at him and he pats your shoulder and steps forward,  _ toward _ the thunderbird. 

She’s taller than Isaac, with dark skin and long braids and sharp avian eyes and you can smell ozone and iron on her. 

You remember the lore Stiles gave you. Thunderbirds rarely take their human form, because they can’t pass as human, because they don’t like being earth bound. 

“ _ Where?” _ she demands, and her voice is rocks falling and thunder over the mountains and you shiver, pressed against Stiles. 

“Safe,” Stiles says, carefully cheerful. “We can take you to them.” 

Her sharp gaze flicks to the sky and then back to Stiles. “My egg?” she asks, and it’s like watching a shipwreck, pieces breaking off and Stiles takes a deep breath, and it all goes to hell.

*

 

Some part of you knew, when she flinched away from the loud noises in your house, when she pressed soft and trembling at your side, that she would never last. 

Your father was quiet but fought viciously with your mother. 

Peter’s fiancee was even more devious than he was. Your brother Andrew was dating a human who ran races with your sisters and won one once because he was a tricky laughing bastard and cheated shamelessly and Andrew kissed him, reeking of pride as Laura glared at them both. 

Paige cowered from the wild werewolves who were your family and you knew she couldn’t belong to them, even if they tried and she tried, for you. She didn’t fit the pack 

Not really. 

Sometimes you look at Stiles and think about how much your family would have loved him. 

*

 

Stiles makes this  _ noise _ and it’s punched out and pained, and you don’t understand it, not really, until you  _ smell  _ it, and you see blood on the wings rising up behind her, and Stiles--

Stiles laughs. Even as you are shifting, ready to leap forward, into those knife sharp feathers and iron tipped fury, and she stares at him, her head cocked and her eyes furious and he  _ laughs _ because Stiles is human and fragile and he reeks of pain and blood but he is still the strongest thing you’ve ever seen. 

*

 

You know that humans break. 

You even know that werewolves break. Peter did and you’ve been watching him put himself back together, a piecemeal madness you can't hate, even when you want to.

You watched Laura breaking, for months, after the fire, until she figured out what she was doing. 

Stiles--you think Stiles should have shattered, years ago. 

You think after everything, he should be a broken empty shell of the boy you met in the woods and you see it, sometimes, the evidence of his fragility in the shake of his hands and the sleepless nights and the way he jerks away from the pack and touch, after the succubus that he still doesn’t talk about. 

You see the lines, the hairline fractures in him that makes you want to hold him closer. 

But you never see him break. 

*

 

Sometimes, when Stiles is moving in you, his voice shakes and his hands stutter on your hips and you know it’s wrong, that he is too fragile for this, for you, that you break everything you touch, but you lean into it, arch into him, and he groans and you think that. 

When he fucks you deep and slow and groans dirty in your mouth and comes apart with a mewling gasp--that is the closest you will ever see him come to breaking. 

*

 

The first time you saw Laura bleed, you were in Montana, hiding from a pair of hunters with a bad attitude and a gorgeous car. She sat you in the motel and ordered you to stay and you argued because everything in you screamed to follow your alpha, but you couldn’t follow where she forbid you to go, and you spent the night pacing, anxious, whining and cursing and remembering the bags they carried your family out of the house in as it smoked and Laura screamed. 

When she stumbled in, grinning and bloody, you crumpled and she caught you as you fell, took your weight as you both sank to the floor and she hummed, soft and reassuring and strong in your ear,  as you fell apart and she bled for your safety. 

*

 

It takes you a long time to realize Stiles believes it, when he says you deserved better than Kate, that you did nothing wrong. 

That she used you. 

It takes you even longer to begin to believe it. 

Even when you do, it isn’t believing Stiles so much as it is believing that Stiles would never hurt you. She comes back and he stays, he  _ stays _ , even when you fuck up with Jennifer Blake and you run away with Kate. He learns about Paige and stays and you run because you’re scared but he  _ stays _ .

He’s always  _ there _ waiting for you, ready to hold you up, if you just give him half a chance. 

Kate was pain and ruin and cruelty and demands and Stiles is strength and friendship and warmth and acceptance. 

You think you could love him for that, if you were a little less jagged and broken. 

If something as shattered and sharp as you could love someone as fragile and good as him. 

*

 

Paige liked the moonlight. She would stand under it and you would watch her under the waning moon, and kiss the sly curve of her lips and you hoped she was strong enough to face the full moon. 

She was ethereal and lovely and when she died in your arms, it was under a black, empty sky, bathed only in the cool gleam of your eyes. 

You hated the moon, after that. 

You hated the moon because it was easier than hating yourself. 

*

 

“Bad idea,” Stiles says, and you can hear the pain in his voice that makes your fangs drop, makes you claw up your palms as you shift. “He doesn’t know where the egg is and if you kill me, you kill your egg.” 

It stops the thunderbird in her tracks, the only evidence of her agitation the quiet shivering of her wings. 

“You can’t stay here,” Stiles says, but it’s with a gentleness you recognize, the kind of gentle he uses when you feel like you are shattering, when your back is against a wall and everything is crumbling. “You wouldn’t even  _ like _ living here, the whole damn territory reeks of wet dog.” 

Blood is running down his arm and dripping on the ground, and you stare at it where it puddles. 

“Let me take you home. Let me take you both home.” 

*

 

“One day, bunny, we’re gonna go home.” 

You curl in the bed, your head on her thigh and she sounds dreamy, moon drunk and happier than you’ve heard her since the fire.

You think the pack you’ve been sheltering with is good for her and you hope you don’t fuck it up. 

“We’re gonna go home, and find a family.”

Her heartbeat is steady and warm and familiar and you drift on her improbable promise.

*

 

You carry him in, his head slumped against your chest. He’s still bleeding, a scent you can’t get out of your head, and you try to focus on the steady beat of his heart and not the way he had crumpled, when the Thunderbird shifted and fled. 

“Don’t tell Scott,” Stiles slurs to his father whose staring at you with something like terror and exasperation in his eyes and you think it’s a combination only Stiles could rouse. 

“It looks worse than it is,” you say and the Sheriff nods, and waves you upstairs. 

It takes you longer than it should to bandage his arm and his hands, before you pour him into a bath and settle behind to hold him and he hums a little, sleepy and content as you drain his pain. His hand on your knee is wet and hot and it feels like the only thing holding you together. 

*

 

Maybe you are holding each other together. Maybe that is what you’ve been doing this whole damn time. 

*

 

“Be careful with him,” the Sheriff says and you glance at Stiles, where he’s laughing with Scott, an arm curled around Lydia’s shoulder. He looks happy, and you feel a smile tug at your lips. He pushed you against the fridge earlier and licked into your mouth and whispered that you were staying, after the pack left, and you nodded, dumb because you knew better, knew you shouldn’t, but he wants so much and you want to give him even more. 

“I--I won’t let him get hurt, sir. I’d die to keep him safe.” 

The sheriff looks at you then. “Stiles is like his mom, Derek. He’s wild and unpredictable and he decides what he wants and goes for it. And if you tell him, no, he’ll listen, because he cares about you and we raised him right. But you haven’t told him no, have you.” 

It isn’t a question but you shake your head. 

“He’s never going to let you go, Derek. And he’s never going to be safe for you to love because he’s like his mother.” 

“I--” you pause and look at him, and you shake with it, all the things this beautiful boy makes you feel. “I wouldn’t hurt him. I wouldn’t--” 

“No, hey, no. Stop. I know you wouldn’t,” John says, gently. “Derek, I’m not worried about you hurting him. I  _ know _ you wouldn’t.” 

You stare at him, bewildered and John sighs. “I’m afraid he’ll hurt you, son. You haven’t had an easy time and I don’t want to see you hurt again. Not by my kid who doesn’t think shit through.” 

You look at him and Stiles is watching you, curious and smiling and you say, “It would be worth it. If he breaks me, it will be worth it.”

The sheriff stares at you for a long moment, and then he nods, and goes back to sitting silent next to you. 

*

 

It should terrify you, how much you mean that. It doesn’t though. 

*

 

He’s shaking and Scott glares, all heavy disapproval that makes your skin itch and your wolf whine. 

“Just because something works, Stiles, doesn’t mean it’s  _ right.” _

For once, Stiles doesn’t have a smart ass reply and Scott snorts his disgust before he storms out of the loft, the pack trailing at his heels, sending nervous looks back to where you stand at Stiles’ side. 

The car has been out of hearing range for ten seconds, when he breaks, his knees giving out as he makes a low pained noise. You catch him, drag him up and into your arms, and lay him in your bed. You hold him, as he sobs, as he presses his distress and hurt into your skin and shakes. 

You hold him together as he shatters apart. 

*

 

“You scared me,” you tell him and he squirms closer to you, presses a kiss into the hollow of your throat. 

“Sorry,” he says, and it’s sleepy remorse. “It worked out though?” 

You look at the feathers--four of them--on his desk. They’re razor sharp and rattled metallically when he clutched them. 

_ Four tokens of sanctuary or aide, _ she had promised. For each egg Stiles had safeguarded, and for the injury he took. 

It worked, and he looked so pleased with himself you can’t bare to spoil that, so you nod and kiss him, until the sweet spicy scent of arousal drowns out the tang of blood and his languorous moans replace the punched out noise of pain he made. 

*

 

Paige broke and it cracked something in you, losing her. 

Kate shattered your world, and you let Laura pick up the shards, let her bleed out as she put you back together and maybe that was wrong, because losing her brought every shattered line in you back, exposed every vulnerable weakness. 

Stiles. 

Stiles sees your weaknesses and shows you his and layers the cracks in your soul with his strengths and when you are too tired and broken to do it, he holds you together.

*

 

He kisses you awake, and you see the tear tracks on his cheeks, even as he shifts and you slide into him, hissing into his mouth at the tight wet heat of him, and he breathes a laugh into your mouth. 

He rides you with slow rolls of his hips and his fingers twisted into yours and you swore you wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t fuck him because he’s  _ breakable _ and you would rather die than hurt him. But you held him, as he sobbed himself to sleep and he has held you, while you howled in grief that has not lessened with time. 

You rock your hips up, into him, claws gentle at his hips as you kiss him with a hint of fang and he groans your name and when his orgasm rips through him, he’s smiling at you. 

*

 

He is breakable and the strongest person you’ve ever known and you think maybe it’s ok that he’s both. 

Maybe he will be hurt, maybe he will shatter. 

Maybe you will. You have before. 

Together, you have a safe place to break and a warm hand to hold you together. 


End file.
